


Everyone I know Goes Away in the End

by womanning



Category: Les Mis - Fandom, Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Basically, Cunnilingus, F/F, Fraternities & Sororities, Genderswap, also there is sex, femmeslash, lesbians, subjolras, tw depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-20
Updated: 2013-03-20
Packaged: 2017-12-05 22:55:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/728830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/womanning/pseuds/womanning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a fight with Grantaire about Grantaire's health, Enjolras seeks to make things up and explain herself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everyone I know Goes Away in the End

**Author's Note:**

> Beth (user lalondes) wanted me to write femmeslash E/R so I wrote femmeslash E/R.  
> To me, Enjolras and Grantaire look like this: http://yosb.tumblr.com/post/44835684882/here-have-some-genderbent-e-r-femjolras-is  
> Combeferre and Prouvaire look like this with hawberries' cool as hell Combeferre and her trans* Prouvaire (for the sake of the sorority setting we'll say Prouvaire is a trans woman in this, though) : http://hawberries.tumblr.com/post/43797273978  
> Though, of course, imagine them however you want, I find that always important.  
> I gave them first names, because I don't think them all going by their surnames would make much sense. And, yeah, once again an American setting--modern au fanfiction writers, we just can't seem to do the French setting, can we. To avoid confusion: Enjolras is Stephanie, Grantaire is Esperanza, Combeferre is Rochelle, Prouvaire is Jeanne/J.J., and Bahorel is Barb.

Combeferre’s handwork is soft on Enjolras’ hair, but it always is at moments like these, with comforting tones and a reading to calm the heat of cheeks flushed with lividness. Combeferre narrates a translation of _La Belle et la Bête_ —to practice her French, but the sentiment of providing a distraction for Enjolras is there. Enjolras shifts as she feels the coolness of scholarly fingers along her neck.

            “Stockholm syndrome, bestiality, but most importantly, producing a love story from a woman’s abuse,” Enjolras says, interrupting her companion’s pacifying.

            “Stephanie,” Combeferre warns, gently and with the twisting of blonde hair. 

            “Disney will profit from anything.”

            “This is de Beaumont.”

            Enjolras swings her legs off her bed and stands up, small hands on small hips. Combeferre watches her—a jut to her bottom lip, a crease between her fair eyebrows, an expression of anxious thought processing. Clad in a white button down, crisp black collar, hugging red pencil skirt, Enjolras appearances a modern Helen. Prouvaire had written this poem once, gave it to Enjolras who was admirable of the arts though was functionally useless in the area herself. The poet likened her to the beauty of Helen (a cause of destruction), the tactics of Athena (“Thank you, J.J., but it is to be noted that Combeferre was more of an Athena.”), and the purity of Artemis (Combeferre has suspicion that this is no longer true and begrudges Enjolras a touch for not telling her best friend the details.)

            Combeferre exhales and leans back into Enjolras’ bed, elbows rested on a monogramed pillow. “Are you going to tell me the reason behind Esperanza locking herself in her room and blaring The Smiths and probably giving herself alcohol poisoning?”

            Enjolras glances at her.

            “I mean, this particular time, at least.”

            Enjolras sets her eyes back to the carpeted floor, on an unidentified yellow stain. “You know,” she says, voice low, “Grantaire”—because to her Esperanza is always Grantaire and Stephanie is always Enjolras to Esperanza—“that—God, you know, when Jeanne took me to that fucking art show, when this girl with the ugliest green and orange dress I had ever seen, worse than any of Jeanne’s ensembles, kept staring me—and I mean, okay, it’s fair, I was taking a look at her collection—but, Rochelle, I never thought that girl would come into my life and fuck it up so much.”

            “’Fuck it up?’ Can I object to your melodrama?” Combeferre says, taking off her glasses and rubbing them on her shirt to feign disinterest, but Enjolras knows her best friend better than that.  Combeferre frets over Enjolras’ wellbeing.

            “I’ve never been so worked up about another person until her,” Enjolras says. “It was always a group, the People—I can trust you with this can’t I? Yeah ... Yes, but, it’s my fault isn’t it? I didn’t have to let her into the sorority. I could have ignored Jeanne’s encouragement. Sure, Grantaire’s a talent woman, but the _problems_ that _come_ with her—God! It was stupid of me. I admit to my stupidity with surrender.”

            “Oh, Steph.” When Enjolras looks to Combeferre is grinning at her, a mix of pity and amusement. “Hun, you _do_ got it bad. Go talk to her. That’s my only advice.”

            “I just don’t want her to continue this shit,” Enjolras says, tucking her hair, unruly from Combeferre’s playing, behind her ears. She pauses her hands in this placement and continues in a quieter voice, “I don’t want her to be in our care—my care—if she does ... anything she’ll regret. I don’t want to be responsible for that.”

            “You can’t regret something if you’re dead,” Combeferre counters.

            This sparks a trace of anger in Enjolras, that Combeferre would take away the ambiguity out of Enjolras’ words. The vagueness was a shield for Enjolras’ own sake.  “Fuck,” is all she can muster before turning on her heel to leave the room. As she quickens her pace to Grantaire’s room she hears Combeferre’s voice shout, “Vive la romance!” to which Enjolras responds with a, “No, fuck!”, throwing furious knocks at Grantaire’s door. “Grantaire!”

            She’s surprised when it doesn’t take longer than a few seconds for Grantaire’s reaction: to simply open the door, narrow-eyed, puffy-eyed, hair wild as Enjolras’, and a cigarette held in between two of her fingers.

            “Such a potty mouth,” Grantaire says groggily. “College has corrupted the good Christian lady.”

            Enjolras ignores this, making an attempt to calm herself—for Grantaire—and she swallows. “Can I please come in?”

            Grantaire steps aside, makes a gesture with her hand.

            Enjolras enters the room, arms to her sides, stiff, she looks around. The same old clustered mess (and who is she to judge with her barricades made of books and papers), art supplies and artworks strewn in every nook and cranny, many of the works are of Enjolras.

            “Listen, Grantaire, I’m going to be straightforward: I’m conflicted.” Enjolras crotches as she says this, picking up a sketch of herself for a closer look. “To say I’m sorry for getting on you for your addictions would a lie but—but, when I think of you hibernating in your room, crying, blasting depressing Smiths songs—”

            “This is Johnny Cash.”

            Enjolras licks her lips and sets the picture down. “Sorry . . . I’m, you know I’m not good with music. I’m not artistic. I’m boring.”

            “You’re _not_ boring, that is the biggest fucking bullshit that’s ever come out of your mouth, Enjolras, but go on. With what you were saying before.”

            Enjolras stands up straight and rests her eyes on Grantaire. Grantaire, just an inch under her own height, Grantaire with the caramel skin, Grantaire with the big hips, the big breasts, Grantaire with the green colors, the Bohemian style, Grantaire with everything opposite to Enjolras.

            “Fuck it,” Enjolras says finally. “Fuck me. I’m not sorry that I care about you. I’m sorry about what I do to you.”

            “Don’t be,” Grantaire says with a sigh. She drops onto her bed, back hunched, arms set along her thighs. “Before I was with you, you know the pining and all, it was always like this. So when we have these fights and I’m alone again I resort back to how I used to be—still am. Enjolras, you didn’t take away my depression or my problems, you just serve as a distraction. And very beautiful, a very smart and kind distraction.”

            “I know,” Enjolras says, but she catches herself. “No, I don’t. I don’t know. All I can do is care. Understand that I can’t just sit back without interjection when the person I love could send herself into a future that ends in a ruined liver or lungs or cancer or—fuck, please, don’t die. Don’t do kill yourself.”  

            Grantaire smiles up at Enjolras weakly. “I would kick the shit out of the Grim Reaper before he could take me away from you.”

            A smile forms on Enjolras’ face as well in reaction to this. She takes a seat next to Grantaire and says, “You’re not drinking now.”

            “No, I’m not. I _am_ trying, believe or not. I want to be someone acceptable for this goddess bitch sitting in bed with me,” Grantaire says, nudging Enjolras side who laughs (and such a sweet sound, Grantaire thinks.)

            “Grantaire, you are a good girl. No, a woman! Fuck the use of that word on ladies, belittling as fuck.”

            “Can this be a thing? The ‘fucks.’ It gets me going. Have you been hanging around Barb too much?” Grantaire asks.

            “I went to one of her boxing matches, like, once. That was enough.”

            “Weak, man.”

            “I am not weak.”

            “No, you aren’t.” Grantaire stares at her with a frown. “Speaking of you hanging out with friends, why do we never dance to M.I.A. together?”

            Enjolras raises an eyebrow. “Pardon?”

            “Sometimes, I see shit like you dancing with Rochelle to that stupid gunshot song, looking like morons, but you seem so _happy_ and I’m so jealous I don’t know what to do. Why am I not close to you like her?”

            “She’s my best friend. It’s a different kind of close. However…” Enjolras leans over to give Grantaire a chaste kiss on the cheek. “I can dance to M.I.A. songs with you, too. Just don’t laugh at my dancing skills or lack thereof.”

            “Nah,” Grantaire says, brushing the other woman off, and heading towards her iPod dock.

            Cautious, Enjolras asks, “What are you doing?”

            “I’ve changed my mind. Combeferre can have dancing with you to M.I.A.. I have something better,” Grantaire says, giving Enjolras a sly wink. “I have fucking you to Robyn. Or I will. Now.”

“Oh.”

 She with a few taps and a scroll, Grantaire has changed the slow melody of some Marina and the Diamonds song to a fast beat of a track that Enjolras admittedly does not recognize.

“It’s called ‘Dancing on my Own’ though ‘Indestructible’ might have been more fitting,” Grantaire answers, walking over to Enjolras. “I can see that dubious look in your eye, ain’t it cute.” She stands above Enjolras and then with a push of her hand, Enjolras is laying flat on her back with Grantaire sprawled on top of her. “Let’s make up like we always do,” she says, lowering her mouth to Enjolras’ for a kiss. “Mm, before me you still wore a virginity ring.” Another kiss.

Enjolras brings her hands to Grantaire’s shoulders, face matching her red skirt. “I wore it as an old habit. I abandoned my family’s Christian lifestyle ages ago.”

The brunette places drawn-out kisses along Enjolras’ neck. “Yeah, when you came to terms with the fact that you want to be fucked by other chicks.”

Enjolras closes her eyes, enjoying the feeling of Grantaire’s lips creating marks on her skin. “Well, there was more to it than that. I was educated on issues of—”—her voice rises on the next word as Grantaire reaches a hand down to feel Enjolras through her skirt—“ _yes_! God, I wanted to be fucked by girls—by women.”

Grantaire bites her lip to stifle a giddy laughter and moves untuck and unbutton Enjolras’ shirt, revealing a practical bra that matches her pale skin tone. “Hmm,” Grantaire sat up. “Take everything off except your skirt.” Enjolras obliges, standing up to shed her shirt, socks, shoes, and bra. She dips down to remove her underwear—they’re Wonder Woman panties, Grantaire notes—and throws them onto one of Grantaire’s painting.

Grantaire lets out a delighted gasp. “They’re so small.”

Enjolras rolls her eyes as this is a one Grantaire’s more common lines during sexual activities. “Yes, Grantaire, I get it: you’re busty yourself and therefore have a weird fetish for … _small_ breasts.”

“No, not a fetish. I just love every part of you an intense amount. That’s the unhealthiest thing about my lifestyle, to be perfectly honest with you, honeybun.”

“’Honeybun.’”

“Get over here, you asshole.”

Enjolras does so, returning to her place on the bed, but this time around she bends over, hands propped on the bed.

Grantaire blinks at her from her seat on the bed. “How can a gal who’s such a leader in public be such a sub in bed?” She hops up, cracking her knuckles. “Watch out, Enjolras, you might be the one with the fetish. Not that I mind.” She aligns herself with Enjolras’ arched back, kissing down her back as her hands feel for Enjolras’ breasts. The lower the kisses get, the lower her hands sink and soon Grantaire has one hand holding Enjolras’ hip, the other hand pushing up Enjolras’ tight skirt.

She starts to rub a finger against Enjolras’ clit, eliciting a gasping moan from the woman beneath her. “I could write poems about your body, but I’ll leave the poetry to J.J..” Enjolras is making this deep “mmm”-ing sound. “I want to paint you like this. I’m sick of sketching nude dudes in class.” Grantaire shifts her fingers away from Enjolras’ clit. “Fuck men,” Grantaire says as she thrusts Enjolras’ face into the bedspread and enters into her with a finger. Enjolras lets out a surprised—pleased—whine.

“Of course misandry gets your pussy wet,” Grantaire says cheekily, turning Enjolras over to once again lie on her back.

Enjolras covers her face by crossing her arms over them and admits an, “Oh God, don’t say things like that.”

Grantaire makes a clicking noise with her tongue, getting on her knees. She takes Enjolras’ thin thighs into her hands and spreads them apart wide before dipping her face down to take a lick at Enjolras’ entrance. Reacting to the ungodly sounds Enjolras is making (and the desire to make more of them, to make them increase in volume), Grantaire brushes her tongue up to Enjolras’ clit and slides two fingers into her. Pumping in and out, playing tricks with her tongue, Enjolras is going wild, all curling toes and fingers in Grantaire’s curly hair. When she comes, it’s warm and her cry loud, her “Grantaire!” louder.

Grantaire extracts her fingers, wipes them on her shorts, and licks her lips stained with Enjolras. She climbs into bed next to Enjolras, her girlfriend’s petit chest rising up and down, and huddles close, burying her face into Enjolras’ gold waves.

            “This was a good day to be in love.”

            “Fuck.”

            “That’s my new favorite reaction of yours.” 


End file.
